Mama's Boy
by thesolitary-dragon
Summary: One rainy day, Lars reflects on his life before, during, and after Maurice was born, and his relationship with his mother.


A/N: Alright, this is a one-shot. It's really about Lars's relationship with his mother and his little brother, so if you're wondering why Raul isn't in the story very much...um...that would be why.

I wrote this story, because of a comment PrinceIzzy1 made to me, about how there aren't a lot of fanfics in the RP section that don't involve some love story. And more so, that I had yet to write one. I thought, I could writea Recess non-romance piece, I think I could also write a RP one. And then this story came to me. I'm mostly going off of a few things in the series that I've noticed about Lars's character. Mainly, whenever he gets hurt, he calls out for his mother. I always thought it was cute, how this big strong bully gets hurt and calls "MOM!" And of course, the voice actor is so talented, the way he says it...and another thing I'm going off is that, you never really see Lars's relationship with his parents, beyond them scolding him for something horrible he's done to his little brother. So...um...in conclusion, this one's for you PrinceIzzy1, even if you decide not to read it.

Now, I apologize in advance in any of you get confused as to what's going on. I wanted the transitions from flashback to present time to be very smooth, almost unnoticeable. Just that, you're reading it, and going through Lars's thoughts with him. I thought if I made it more obvious, "this is where the flashback begins, this is where the flashback ends", you would lose the mindset Lars's is in and it would take away from the story.

A note on the Spanish: I used a few Spanish sentences in this, and some of you may be relieved to know (or maybe not) I didn't use my Spanish online translator. I didn't get a beta-reader either, and I didn't use a Spanglish dictionary (mainly, because I can't find ours....) I used my brain, which is usually lazy when it comes to the Spnaish. Now, everybody, keep in mind, it's been two years since I've had a Spanish class. I'm trying to remember this stuff, when I can't even remember what I had for breakfast yesterday morning.

Summary: A comment made by his mother, spurs Lars's to reflect on his relationship with her before, during, and after Maurice was born. This is a one-shot piece, highly reflective, and contains endearing brother moments. During present time, Lars and Maurice are the same age as they are in the show, and in the flashbacks, the ages vary.

* * *

Mama's Boy

Lars picked at the scab on his elbow, flicking the brown dry patch away and watching blood gush out, flooding once more to the open wound in hopes of sealing it again. From the corner of his eye, he could see his younger brother, Maurice, practicing a new move on a skateboard in the living room. It was raining outside, and they were stuck in the house with only each other's company until their parents returned home.

Any other day, Lars would have come up with some way or other to torture his younger brother, but after that morning, he had too much on his mind to bother.

"One day," his mother had said, peeved after Lars had been caught holding Maurice's head under the bathroom faucet and running cold water over his freckled face while threatening to dye the boy's unusual red hair a bright pink, "He will be all you have left. Your father and I will be gone, and friends do not last forever. He will always be by your side, because family is the only thing you can count on."

"_He's _all I'll have left," Lars had demanded haughtily, "Man, I think I'd prefer nothing." The comment hadn't gone over well with his mother. She'd shook her head, sighing, a look of pure disappointment crossing her soft features.

"You will understand when you're older," she had stated, as she turned to leave for work.

Lars frowned, the blood bubbling up, a single droplet streaming down his arm. He wiped it off with his thumb, before turning his attention to the magazine laid out before him. He was almost three years older than Maurice, though a late birthday placed him two grades ahead of the younger boy. He was the oldest in his class, and easily one of the strongest and most athletic. He could be considered something of a bully. He grinned proudly at that thought. Pummeling smaller kids to nothing more than crumpled heaps of whining babies was something he was particularly good at. Everyone was afraid of him at school, and he kind of liked that. No. He frowned again. He didn't like that. Fear could often be mistaken for respect, but the two were not interchangeable. He wanted to be respected. Maurice was respected.

Maurice was the type of kid who could be laid back and totally wired all at once. He goofed off and hung out with every genre of child around Ocean Shores; from nerd, to skater, to loner, to prep, to goth, to goody-two-shoes, to jock. Didn't matter, they all thought he was cool. Him and his best friend, Otto Rocket. They were idolized, looked up to, worshipped like demigods. Lars hated Otto, because the well-known Rocket boy often let the fame get to his head. He was arrogant, cocky, brash, and annoyingly over confident. Maurice, however, Lars couldn't hate. Not just because he was Lars's little brother, but because he was modest. He knew when to back down and say, 'yeah, I can't do that' or 'yeah, I'm good, but I'm not the best'. That's not to say he couldn't get on Lars's nerves, they were still siblings, after all.

_One day, your father and I will be gone._ Lars folded the page of the magazine, once, twice, thrice, creasing the glossy paper with the edge of his thumbnail. It was an advertisement, for a vacuum. A Dirt Cycle 3000, or something along those lines. Vacuums. The sound of a vacuum rang clearly in his ears. He was two then, still learning to use the toilet and form proper sentences and walk without stumbling. The usual important things to a two year old child. It had been summer, Lars remembered, because it was so hot. His mother was in her early twenties, frizzy brown hair tied back in a ponytail, dark skin accented against the grungy white tank top she wore and bright grey sweatpants. She was glistening with sweat, and her stomach bulged from the late last months of pregnancy. They were at a fancy house, two stories. Lars loved playing on the stairs, carpeted with plush prim white. The stairs at their apartment complex, downtown, was cement with thin, chipped black paint, steel railing. It was always dirty, as opposed to that soft creamy case.

The banister was beige wood, curving down to the entranceway in an elegant design that reminded Lars of a bird in flight. He would climb up the stairs on hands and knees, pretending it was a steep mountainside, and grasp onto that banister desperately for his dear life as he hung perilously high above the ground. His mother was downstairs, vacuuming. The loud whirring the only reminder that he was not really scaling the icy slopes of Mount Everest, but really just waiting for his mother to finish cleaning so that they could go on to the next house. Those were his afternoons. Traveling from house to house, playing in the sweet smelling bedrooms while his mother worked. At the end of the long string of jobs, they would sometimes stop at a burger place, McDonald's, and Lars would run in the playground while his mother finished his cold fries and half-eaten cheeseburger, having gotten nothing herself, and encouraging him to play nice with the other children. It was at those places he would make his 'one-day' friends. They would be his friends for a day, and then leave with their parents and he'd never see them again. Often times, they never even learned one another's names, but they were the best friends he ever had.

The vacuum turned off in the other room, and his mother wheeled it into the front way, curling the cord up in her hand as she went. She stopped at the base of the stairs, wiping the sweat from her forehead, and looking up exhaustedly to her son. It was hot in the house, because the occupants had turned the air conditioner down when they left. Why waste cold air and money on the house keeping? Sometimes, Lars's mother would change the thermostat, when it was an especially dry heat, but not that day.

"Mi hijo," she clucked, hand on hip, "What have I told you about playing on the stairs?"

"Not a stairs…" Lars protested.

"Oh, and what is it?" his mother pressed, smiling despite herself.

"A mountain," he explained, hopping up the next step and grinning down boyishly to his mother. She shook her head, chuckling.

"A mountain, mi hijo, and are you a great climber?"

"Si, mama," Lars pulled himself up further. He slipped, his hand sliding from around the banister support, and tumbled down the staircase. He lay belly down on the third step, looking up at his mother, bottom lip trembling. She sat, as best she could with her pregnancy, her face looking to his in concern.

"Oh, mi hijo," she soothed, pulling him into what remained of her lap. Tears streamed down his cheeks, and he showed her the scrapes on his arm left from the plush carpet almost accusingly of the stairs. She rubbed his back, hushing him as he sobbed, "It's alright, it's okay…shush…"

"Mama," he hiccupped, "I fell…"

"I know," she murmured, kissing the top of his head, arms wrapped about his small frame. He rubbed at his eye furiously with a balled fist, moaning softly. He fell silent, suddenly. Staring quietly at the empty space, pouting, and softly gasping every now and then.

"It moved…" he mumbled, looking curiously to his mother's stomach.

"The baby is kicking, mi hijo," his mother explained, taking his small hand and pressing it to her side. He jumped, eyes wide and smiling when he felt the small jolt, shoulders shrugged up, "You have to be very strong, you're going to be a big brother," his mother said, delicately brushing his hair from his forehead, behind his ears, in a soft motherly touch that made his eyes droop and caused him to yawn, "You're going to have to look out for this little one. Can you be strong, mi hijo?" Lars grinned, nodding, and flexing his arm, round and coated in baby fat. His mother gasped, "Oh, such a big boy! Not a little baby, anymore…"

"Uh uh…"

"Oh, but still _my _baby," his mother grinned, engulfing him in kisses, her long fingers finding places to brush across like spider legs, and send ticklish shivers up his spine. He giggled uproariously, struggling against her touch, and she pulled him close to her in a nuzzling embrace.

Lars turned the page of the magazine, realizing he'd been staring at that vacuum advertisement. He wetted his lips, flipping the pages with no real direction, not even bothering to glance at the pictures. He paused, strumming his fingers against the dining room table. There was a glass of water in front of him. The long wooden table was sturdy, and the vibrations from his finger tips died before they even got started. Not like that blue plastic table, with the thin wiry metal legs. A cup of water swished wildly with even the slightest touch to that table, and it would jolt madly, as it was uneven on one leg.

It was late night when Lars had snuck from his bed to the wide living area, which was connected to the kitchen. His mother was sitting at the plastic table, her ratty old bathrobe open and draped over her shoulders, the edge brushing along the dirty tile floor. She sat in one of the metal fold out chairs that surrounded the table, her bare legs crossed. She bobbed her foot and the slipper balanced on the edge of her toes would sway up and down with the movement. She was wearing her night clothes, a large t-shirt and old shorts. She was humming, one hand lay over her swelled belly, her eyes were closed, and her chin touching to her chest. There was a glass of water on the table.

Lars watched silently, knowing he would be in trouble for not sleeping as it was late. He wondered why his mother was still up. Her lips were moving, and she was running her fingers tenderly over the bulging belly.

"Niño querido duerme te ya," she sung quietly, and Lars sank to the floor, listening. His mother had a beautiful voice. He closed his eyes, laying down and feeling somewhat forgotten, wondering who she was singing to. She'd only ever sung that song to him, "Que mientras tanto te canta mama …" He felt himself drifting back to sleep, forgetting why he'd awaken in the first place, "Los pajarillos duermen tambien…" He squeezed his eyes shut tight, wrapping his arms about himself, "Mientra su madre busca de comien." He sobbed silently to himself.

Lars pushed the magazine away, taking a long drawl from his cup of water. He slammed the heavy glass down, and the hollow sound startled him. He felt restless, as though he needed to do something, anything. The rain pounded outside against the window pane. He wedged his tongue into the gap between his teeth, rubbing it against the gum and wrung his hands wearily. He remembered it had been raining that day, too. Spring was drawing to an end, and fall was straggling its way forward. His mother had seated herself in a reclining chair, feet up. She had a headache and was listening to scratchy ballad recordings done by Latino singers Lars could never recall the names of. He only remembered it was raining because it was thundering as well. He had tucked himself beside his mother's feet, back pressed firmly against the chair, eyes covered with cowering hands.

Lars had always been afraid of thunder. Not so much lightening, just the loud noise. Often times, when the clamoring began, his mother would pull him into her arms and sing softly in his ear. But she was too tired that day. The baby had been kicking a lot, and his parents kept talking about it being "almost time". Lars didn't like the sound of it. His father was at work, an underpaying construction job that left the man exhausted at the end of the day.

They were constantly talking about preparations. Cleaning the house, getting new things, arguing over the costs and finances. Lars's mother had stopped in a store the other day, looking at little clothes that Lars knew he couldn't fit into, and little toys he'd never be interested in. She looked almost longingly at an expensive stroller, with soft cushion sitting, and then a nice four post white crib. One of the sides of the crib collapsed down for easy access, and there was a spinning mobile that played clinking music and spun the small stuffed animals attached to the end.

"It will be cheaper to just buy you a new bed and give your crib to the baby," his mother had commented partially to Lars, sighing heavily and running tentative fingers over the pristine wood. She picked up little dresses, pink blankets, little berets and hair ties, sweet little dolls with penny coats, and sighed, patting her belly softly, "I don't mind what you are," she had whispered, "But if you are a little girl…" Lars had remained quiet. He didn't want a new bed, he didn't want to give his crib to anyone.

But now Lars's mother gave out a small whimper, clutching her stomach. She sat up, looking about with wide eyes.

"Mi hijo," she whispered, and Lars looked up expecting comforting words or a motherly touch, "Bring me the phone." Her voice was hoarse, and desperate. Lars moved quickly, afraid. He grabbed the entire base off the table and dragged it to his mother as far as the cord would reach. She quickly dialed, having to hang up and try several times until she was finally satisfied, placing the receiver to her ear, "Hello, this is Mrs. Rodriguez. I'd like to speak to my husband Raul…" she frowned, "What do you mean he cannot take a personal phone call, I am in labor! Get me my husband…I will not calm down…I am alone here with my two year old son! Augh!" She slammed the phone down, tears springing to her eyes and Lars broke into a wailing sob, "Oh, mi hijo," his mother shushed, "Do not cry. Mama does not need that right now…" Lars wanted to keep crying, but he bit down his tears, knowing he had to be strong. He had to be strong for his mother. She lifted the phone again, pressing only three buttons this time in a steadfast manner, she lifted the phone to her ear, "Hello? Yes, I need an ambulance. I am in labor."

Lars pushed himself in a corner, watching his mother talk on the phone. The person on the other end was apparently trying to calm her down. If only someone could calm him down. He was frantic, afraid, having no idea what was going on. Labor. The word sounded horrible. Thunder boomed outside and sirens soon joined the uproar. Men in blue suits rushed in, loading his mother onto a wheel bed and led her away, huffing and heaving. A mustached man with blonde curls came to Lars, motioning him to follow. He trailed after his mother, loaded up into the back of the red and white truck, and they tore down the road, his mother yelling obscenities about her husband's workplace.

Then there were the white halls. Lars had to wait in a large room. It was clean and smelled like the houses his mother took him to each day. There was an area with toys scattered across the floor, and other kids were playing with them. But Lars sat silently in one of the fluffy gray chairs, his hands clasped firmly in his lap, staring at the black and white tile floor. It was polished and shiny, unlike the linoleum in the kitchen at home. He sighed.

The door of the room slammed open, and Lars's father stood in the doorway, looking about wide-eyed. He looked out of breath, his face blanched. Lars stood when he saw his father, going to wave and call out, but the tall man strode to the front counter.

"Where is my wife?" he demanded, and the front clerk looked up in surprise, "She was brought here…where is she?"

"What's the name, sir?"

"Papá," Lars mumbled, coming to stand at his father's leg. His father glanced down at him briefly, attention fully on the clerk.

"Rodriguez," he answered stiffly.

"Oh, yes," the clerk said brusquely, "She's in the delivery room. I'll inform the doctor that you're here."

"I must see my wife!"

"I know, sir, but you have to sterilize before entering," the clerk argued, "And they should almost be finished. If you could take a seat, the doctor will come get you when it's done." Lars followed his father back to the chairs. They sat in silence. Father watching the clock, son trying not to make any noise. A door opened and a stern looking man came out. He saw Lars's father, who was halfway to his feet, and crossed the lobby towards him, hand outstretched.

"Mr. Rodriguez?"

"Yes."

"Congratulations," the doctor grinned, "You are now the proud father of a beautiful baby boy."

"A son," Lars's father exclaimed, lifting Lars into his arms, "It's a boy! Mi hijo, you have a new little brother!" Lars frowned, but his father didn't notice, as the doctor took them down the hallway. The first thing he saw was his mother. She lay heavily against the fresh white bed, her eyes drifting closed, her lips slightly parted, her forehead damp. Her cheeks were flushed pink and she looked simple, plain, and beautiful. A smile slid across her face when she saw her husband and son. In her arms, Lars saw a small bundle. His father placed him on the bed beside his mother and he crawled up to peek inside the blue blanket. There was a soft pink face with orange fuzz on the top.

"This is your little brother," his mother told him, taking her husband's hand, "Lars, this is Maurice."

"It's small and pink," Lars stated and his parents chuckled gently.

"You have to take very good care of him," his father said, "You're his big brother." Lars chewed his lower lip, leaning over the small cherubic being, and those eyes opened, a bright brownish green, and Lars looked deep into them, feeling a heaviness in his chest, as he trailed a finger over the warm pink cheek.

Lars finished the contents in his glass and stood to rinse it out. He set it to dry on the counter, crossing to the fridge in search of something to eat. He pulled out the left-over fried chicken from the night before, claiming a drumstick and taking a bite of the cold poultry. He shut the fridge, and his eyes fell on the small magnet letters scattered across the door. They had come in a crinkling clear plastic bag. They'd once been a complete set, the whole alphabet, letters zero through nine, and a few funny shapes and animals. His mother had bought them a week before he started kindergarten.

They didn't stick as firmly to the avocado green refrigerator that had sat in the apartment kitchen collecting grease, dirt and dust. So Lars had to play with them on the linoleum floor, rearranging them and pretending he knew how to spell things. Maurice would come over, dragging his stuffed dog Caliente along with him, and kicking the magnets about. Then he would flop on the floor, sucking his thumb, and pushing the other magnets around with Caliente. Their mother would laugh, and comment on how her sons were such "studious young men" and Lars would get angry, shoving Maurice away.

Lars's first day of school, he ate his cereal in disgruntled silence, watching his younger brother enviously. The little boy would be staying at home the whole day, with their mother. He sat at the other end of the table, Caliente on the table beside him, eating dry Cheerios, blissfully unaware of how truly lucky he was.

Chiribiribi, pom, pom, pom, pom," he was singing to the cereal. Lars scowled as their mother came and pressed a kiss to the top of Maurice's redhead.

"Mi hijo, tu cantas es muy bueno," she told him and he grinned, popping another Cheerio in his mouth.

"Coje tu sombrero y pontelo…" he continued, pausing a moment to take a gulp of his orange juice, "Vamos a la playa…"

"Is it time to go, yet?" Lars prodded, fidgeting in his chair. His mother sighed, looking to him in exasperation. He pouted and she nodded, picking Maurice up from the chair, and making her way to the door to slip her sandals on. Lars hopped from his chair, placing his hands on his hips.

"Is he coming too?"

"Si, Lars," his mother said, "Of course. I can't leave him here alone." Lars rolled his eyes, pulling his backpack on and leading the way out the front door and down the cement staircase. They walked together, their mother joining Maurice in song.

"Chiribiribi, pom, pom, pom, pom," they sang somewhat in unison, people looking at them strangely as they passed. Lars took his mother's hand as they crossed the street, walking through the empty desert lot. Litter was scattered everywhere, caught in the spoke branches of the sparse tumbleweed bushes, and various other little dull green plants. It was a shortcut. Then they walked along the sidewalk, reaching the front of the elementary school. There were cars lining the streets, large yellow buses in the long front driveway, and kids running rampantly around on the blacktop and climbing over the colorful playground. Lars stared blankly at it, too scared to move forward.

"Mi hijo," his mother whispered, bending to place a hand on his shoulder and draw him in to a tight embrace, "Do not be afraid. You'll have fun." Maurice reached a hand out, touching his finger along Lars's cheek. Lars pushed the hand away, but smiled slightly, kissing his mother and begrudgingly kissing his brother, who wiped at the area in detest. He watched them leave, as he trailed up the steps to the school.

Lars took a seat by himself on a bench facing the playground . He slumped back, his hands folded in his lap, his backpack set beside him. The kids, mostly older, ran around shouting and playing in groups with friends. He felt his stomach knot. It seemed like everybody already knew everyone else. He didn't know anyone. When the bell rang, he rose, watching the other kids race to their classes. He trudged down the hallways, searching for the room he was supposed to be in. He followed the numbers with his eyes, silently counting to himself. He was proud, already knowing both the alphabet and his numbers all the way up to a hundred, in both English and Spanish. He also already knew how to write out his name, address, and phone number. Not many kindergartners know how to do that, his mother had praised him. He paused, looking back, and around frantically. He'd counted all the way up, but hadn't come across his class. He backtracked, panicking as the halls thinned out. Soon he was the only one walking, and he could see the teachers in all the rooms already situating themselves at the front of class, talking.

Lars wished his mother was there. She couldn't stay, had to take Maurice home. Other parents stayed with their children, Lars had noticed, walking them to their classrooms. He felt his heart pounding in his chest, and broke into tears, falling to the floor. He drew his knees up, burying his face and sobbing. A man came by, stopping when he noticed the small child.

"Where are you supposed to be?" he asked, and Lars looked up, sniffling.

"I don't know," he stammered, "I…was…I…can't…mama…"

"Okay, okay, it's okay," the man soothed, "Come on, I'll take you to the front office and we'll figure it out from there." Lars took the man's hand and they walked through the halls to the large office. A young woman behind the counter peered down at him, typing his name into the computer in front of her.

"Thank you, Mr. Spigot, I'll take him to his class," the woman said and the man ruffled Lars's hair before leaving. The woman took him down the hall again, opening the door and calling the teacher, a large, jolly looking woman, over to her.

"This is Lars Rodriguez," the woman said in a low tone, "He got lost."

"Oh, poor thing," the woman chuckled, bending down to Lars's eye level, "You're in the right place, now, little Mister Rodriguez. I'm Miss Hamlin, come on in and join us." She put her hand behind Lars's shoulders, gently pushing him into the room. He glanced around at all the faces staring expectantly at him and flushed. He'd never been around so many kids before. They were gathered in clustered desks of threes and fours, "I know I have a desk somewhere around here with your name written on it…oh, over there, by Carlos and Jeremiah." Lars dragged his feet towards the little cluster of desks, staring at the plastic chair uncertainly before sitting down. He looked meekly to the other two boys, Carlos and Jeremiah, who regarded him with curious glances. Carlos was bulky, pudgy and deeply tanned. His hair was shaved close to his head, and his eyes were small dark circles over placid white. Jeremiah was pale, his eyes wide and a deep blue that Lars had never seen before. His hair was redder than Maurice's and he wore large round glasses that reminded Lars of a toad.

"Now, let's begin by playing the Hello game!" Miss Hamlin announced from the front of the class, "Now, how we play this game is each of you takes a turn saying hello to the others at your table. Tell them your name, and three things about yourself. But each thing you say must start with, 'hello'. I'll start the game by introducing myself to all of you. Hello, my name is Brenda Hamlin. Hello, I've been teaching here for over eight years now. Hello, I love to read lots of books. Hello, I love to play games. Are there any questions?" No one said anything, "Okay. All of you give it a try."

"This is stupid," Carlos muttered as the class erupted into talking. He sounded as though he had cotton balls stuffed in his cheeks.

"That's not how it's played," Jeremiah pointed out, his voice a nasally whine, "You're supposed to say, _hello_, this is stupid."

"_Hello_, I don't care because, _hello_, this is stupid," Carlos spat, and the two laughed. Lars frowned at his name, written in bold letters on a piece of lined paper, the type with little dotted lines through the center of the two solid lines, to show were the top of the lower case letters should touch. He had thought the game sounded fun, like something he would play with his mother.

"We should at least play," Jeremiah pressed, "I'll start. Hello, my name is Jeremiah Lange. Uh…uh…uh…hello, I'm…uh…you go," he said to Carlos.

"No way, you already started," Carlos argued. They looked to Lars, "You go, kid."

"Yeah," Jeremiah snapped. Lars played with his backpack, set on the ground beside him as opposed to strapped to the back of his chair, like the other kids.

"Okay…" Lars mumbled, his voice soft, "I'm La…."

"You're supposed to say 'hello' first," Jeremiah interrupted matter-of-factly. Lars scowled, clasping his hands together on the top of the desk and attempting it again.

"_Hello_, I'm Lars Rodriguez," he stated steadily through gritted teeth, "_Hello_, I…uh…I…I'm almost six years old. I…uh…I mean, _hello_, I…uh…I don't know how to read. Hello, I…I…uh…"

"Just spit it out, kid!" Carlos cried, "Sheesh…"

"I have a little brother," Lars blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

"Your name is Lars?" Jeremiah questioned, "Sounds like something that comes out of your nose."

"It does not!" Lars protested.

"Ha, ha," Carlos laughed, "Lars, sounds like bologna…"

"No it doesn't," Lars shouted.

"Like something in the toilet," Jeremiah laughed.

"Shut up!" Lars cried, "My mama will…"

"Mama?" Carlos repeated, "You're a mama's boy!" Lars pouted, not knowing what it meant, but sensing it was something he didn't want to be.

"Mama's boy, mama's boy," Jeremiah and Carlos began chanting and Lars glanced to Miss Hamlin who was busy talking to another cluster of students.

"Stop it," Lars moaned, "Shut up…" he sniffled, "Mama…"

"See," Carlos cried triumphantly, "Mama's boy, mama's boy!" He couldn't understand why it hurt him so much. He loved his mother, and he was his mother's son, her little boy, but the way they said it made it sound like a horrible thing to be. Before he knew what he'd done, he lashed out at the closest boy, Jeremiah, shoving the small, thin figure to the floor with as much force as he could muster.

"I said stop it!" Lars growled, smacking Carlos. He was heatedly aware that all eyes in the class were on him, but he didn't care. He continued hitting Carlos, who finally broke into tears and Jeremiah was already crying from his hard landing. There was a satisfying feeling, as though he'd just proved he wasn't a "mama's boy", and that those two were.

Lars's eyes trailed down the refrigerator and he stalked back towards the kitchen table. He paused, his eyes falling on two clay imprints pinned to the wall. Two hands, one smaller than the other. Names were drawn underneath them, with numbers, ages directly following. Lars, seven. Maurice, five. Before we leave, his mother had said, we need something to remember this day. She'd gone to the store and bought the clay, and they'd both pressed their hands in the mold. The apartment was empty for the most part, save for a few boxes that hadn't been loaded into the car and the plastic table and avocado fridge. They didn't need them. Maurice had sat in his father's lap, and Lars's beside his mother. She had wrapped her arms about him, kissing his cheek. They'd let the clay set over night, and the next morning it had hardened. Then they'd loaded in their car. The first thing put up in that new house were those two handprints.

They started school in Ocean Shores. The school year had already begun, and Lars had walked up that pathway holding tightly to his brother's hand and watching the kids play on the playground with already claimed friends. They went to the office, sitting in the chairs and waiting patiently for someone to notice them, clasping one another's hands until they were led down separate halls to their new classrooms.

Lars still recalled coming home with the black eye at the end of the day and Maurice, sitting in the sandbox, at school during recess. The sand was smooth and white, not like the sand at their old school that was gritty and sometimes dirtied with cat feces. He was building pyres in it, forming small creations. An older boy was on the swing set, kicking his legs, pumping high into the air. He sprung from the seat of the swing suddenly, landing with a stumble, kicking the creations into a quick mess and knocking Maurice over. Lars hadn't seen it, too busy playing basketball with the other kids. But he heard the cry. He'd turned, overcome with an unexplainable anger at seeing his brother sitting on the blacktop clutching his scraped and bleeding knee. The older boy stood over him, shrugging, telling him, "it's not that bad", then snidely, "Do I need to get your mommy?" The phrase should have been what set the older Rodriguez off.

However, it was when Maurice stammered, "…Lars…" that a fist was clenched.

When Lars walked through the front door, he was faced with his mother. She shook her head at him, examining his face reprovingly.

"A fight," she grumbled, "But it was only the first day. How could you get in a fight on the first day of school? Mi hijo…" He lowered his head, watching Maurice disappear into the kitchen and climb up onto the table, pulling out his homework. Lars thought to mention the circumstances surrounding the fight, but chose not to.

"I met a boy who lives a few houses down," Maurice said from the kitchen cheerfully, "We sit next to each other in class. Can I go play with him?"

"See, Lars, Maurice is making friends," their mother cried, "I don't understand. Why do you always get in fights?"

"Mama, I…" Lars struggled, then scowled. There was a knock at the door.

"That's Otto," Maurice grinned, jumping from the chair, "Mama…can I?"

"Oh, mi hijo," their mother cooed, dragging the small child into a loving embrace and giving him a snuggling kiss, "Stay in the front yard." Lars frowned, seeing the door open and the two children waiting outside. A small boy with a shaggy mess on his head, and a tall girl with purple curls, her arms strapped around the boy.

"Hi," the shaggy boy grinned, "Let's go! I'll race you down to the sidewalk!"

"Yeah!" Maurice accepted.

"See you down there," the boy piped, taking off and Maurice chased after him, the door shutting. Lars looked up to his mother, who frowned at him, hands on hips.

"Mama…"

"You're going to have to go to your room, mi hijo, and do your homework. I'll talk to your father when he gets home," she sighed, pointing to the stairs, "March."

Lars moaned, storming up to his room and restraining from slamming the door shut. He fell to the bed in frustrated tears, uncertain of why he felt so upset. His mother favored Maurice, he decided, and now Maurice would rather go and run with that other boy, Otto, then sit and mess with Lars's things. He buried his face in the pillow. He hated his brother. Maurice had taken his mother, his father, and hadn't the dignity to give him a second glance. He fell asleep in tears, waking later, when it was dark, to find a plate of food at his bedside. He ate begrudgingly, satisfied that he'd escaped a lecture from his father. He did his homework, and tiptoed down the stairs to glance his parents watching television. He climbed back up towards his room. Maurice was crossing the hall to the bathroom, and stopped upon seeing his brother.

"Did you get in trouble?" Maurice asked.

"Yeah, and it's all your fault," Lars hissed, all that anger he'd been feeling, suddenly bursting out. He grabbed Maurice menacingly, pinning him against the wall, "And because I got punished, I'm going to punish you…"

Maurice whimpered, "I'm sorry," pressing himself against the wall. Lars frowned, wondering what he could do to really hurt the younger boy.

"Where's your stupid dog?" he demanded.

"Pero Caliente?" Maurice stuttered, "Why?"

"I just want to see him," Lars said slyly, "Where is he?" Maurice led the way to his room, opening the door and pointing to his bed where the stuffed dog lay on its side. Lars snatched it up, stuffing it in his pocket.

"It's mine, now," he snapped, leaving the room.

"But, Lars, how'm I supposed to sleep without him?" Maurice demanded, his voice edging on a whine, tears of frustration and confusion brimming his eyes, bright copper green.

"You should have thought of that before you got me in trouble," Lars retorted, stalking back to his room and slamming the door shut behind him. He threw the stuffed animal into his closet, having no where else to put it, and fell onto his bed.

It was later that Lars heard his parents tucking Maurice in. He heard footsteps on the stairs and assumed it meant his parents weren't going to come say good-night to him. He felt a painful twang in his chest. The door to his room creaked open, and his mother's form sidled in. He turned over, his back to her. She sat on his bedside, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"Lars? Maurice says you have his stuffed dog," she whispered.

"I do not!" Lars snapped.

"_Lars_," she said sharply. He stirred somewhat and she sighed, her touch softening, "Mi hijo, what is wrong?"

"Nothing."

"You can tell me," she pressed, "I know that you haven't been very happy. Fights at school, fighting with your brother," she straightened the covers, smoothing the wrinkles out, hesitantly mumbling, "You don't even let me kiss you good-bye for school anymore."

"You kiss Maurice good-bye, isn't that enough?" Lars spat.

"Oh, mi hijo," she breathed, "Is that what you think? Maurice and you are…"

"It doesn't matter," Lars cried in exasperation, "I don't want to be a mama's boy!" His mother fell silent, her hand leaving his shoulder as though burned.

"Mi hijo," she began carefully, "There is no reason for you to act in this manner. You are my first born, and for two years you had me to yourself. Because you have a good connection with your mother is nothing to be ashamed of. It does not make you weak or this 'mama's boy'. And as for Maurice. I know it has been hard on you, for you were an only child for a short time. But you must know, that he has not replaced you in my heart."

"But you love me less…" Lars sniffled, "Because you have to love him, too…"

"There is not a limit to how much I can love," his mother laughed softly, her arm wrapping around him tenderly, "I love you as much as I always have. More than I can love anyone! And I love Maurice just as much; no more, no less," she pressed a kiss to his shoulder, and he allowed her to draw him into a tight embrace, "But it's true. Our relationship is different then mine with Maurice," Lars felt an ache of anxiousness in his heart, "You will always be Lars, big and strong," she grinned, covering him in kisses, "And always my baby…" he laughed, smiling, and gasping for breath when she stopped. He lay looking up at her and she brushed his hair from his face, "And, mi hijo, I would not worry about Maurice trying to steal me away from you. He is far too attached to someone else…"

"Who?" Lars asked, curious as to who could be better than their mother.

"You."

"Uh uh," Lars protested, in disbelief. His mother simply smiled, lifting herself up and heading for the door, "Mama," he called and she paused turning to him, "I put Caliente in there," he said, pointing to the closet. His mother nodded, retrieving the stuffed animal and heading to the door once more. He twisted somewhat, "Mama…"

"Yes, mi hijo."

"Will you sing to me?" he asked shyly and she smiled knowingly.

"Niño querido duerme te ya…que mientras tanto te canta mama…" Lars felt his lids droop, and he was asleep before she finished the song. He didn't even hear her retreating steps. Nor did he hear the door open and close again once more. He startled awake later in the night to find a small form beside him. Maurice lay sleeping, eyes shut, thumb resting on his bottom lip, softly breathing. Lars smiled, lifting the covers over them, and drifting back to sleep.

A crash resounded from the living room, and Lars was startled from his retrospect. He rushed to investigate the source of the sound, finding his brother on the floor, backside down, the skateboard on the other side of the room. There was a broken lamp beside him.

"What did you do?" Lars demanded ready to yell, but paused. Maurice's eyes were shining with fresh tears, he grimaced as he attempted to lift himself up, and there was a deep crimson red splayed on his bright blue shirt and the shards of lamp. He had a gash on his left arm oozing blood. Lars was beside him at once, gently lifting him up, holding the arm to his brother's body, attempting to wrap it in the already stained shirt while leading him to the bathroom, "Are you out of your mind?" Lars cried, "Are you trying to get yourself killed?"

Lars set Maurice on the toilet, lid down, and pulled out the first aid kit. He took his younger brother's arm, squatting beside him, and attempting to clean the blood up.

"It really hurts," Maurice whimpered, tears streaming down his cheeks.

"Well then you shouldn't of been skateboarding in the house," Lars spat, "Mom is gonna kill me when she founds out what you did!" Maurice winced, and Lars could feel him trembling. He softened his tone, "You really ripped your arm up. I think this scar is going to be here to stay…"

"Oh man…" Maurice groaned, then gasping as Lars applied the antiseptic cream, "Ow…" he cried, more tears flooding his cheeks.

"Calm down," Lars clucked, but as that had no affect, "Um…think about something."

"Okay," Maurice conceded, "I'm thinking about pain…and hurting…and that stinging sensation in my arm…and…"

"Think about something _else_," Lars pressed. Maurice closed his eyes, shaking from the pain, as Lars unrolled the bandage. He frowned as Maurice choked with sobs. The younger boy wasn't being very successful at taking his mind off the pain. Lars began humming, softly at first, trying to concentrate as he pressed the gauze to the open wound, and began rolling the bandage around it. The tune was the first thing that came to his mind, though he didn't know why. The words began softly, his lips moving slowly, he hadn't intended to say them aloud, "Niño querido duerme te ya…que miertas tanto te canta mama…" Lars wasn't the best of singers. Maurice had followed in their mother's footsteps with the musical talent, amongst his other talents, but Maurice fell silent, and was no longer trembling, "Los pajarillos duermen tambien…" he distinctly heard the words pass from Maurice's lips along with him that time, and the corners of his mouth turned up, "Mientra su madre busca de comien." They were quiet, when the lullaby ended, and Lars tied off the bandage, "Done."

"Thanks," Maurice murmured, bringing the arm to his body protectively, and glancing warily to his older brother. They stared blankly at the bathroom tile, embarrassed. Silently agreeing that the fact they'd both sat in the bathroom singing a child's lullaby together was never to be spoken of.

"I'm sorry about this morning?" Lars finally muttered.

"Mom making you say that?" Maurice questioned bitterly.

"No," Lars spat, "I'm just sorry, okay. I can say sorry without mom and dad forcing me to, once in awhile, can't I?"

"I guess…" Maurice murmured, "But you never have." Lars sighed, standing, and rubbing the bridge of his nose wearily. There was blood on his shirt now, and hands. For a moment, he'd been worried he'd have to call an ambulance, worried that Maurice was seriously injured. He mentally cursed himself for not yelling at his younger brother to get off the skateboard in the house in the first place. He brought a hand up, cupping the side of Maurice's face, brushing his thumb along his cheek, holding each other's eyes for a moment.

"Don't _ever_ do that to me again," Lars breathed, letting him go, "Now go clean that mess up. And you better come up with a good reason for why this happened, because if you tell mom I was letting you skateboard in the house, we're both in serious trouble. And if I get in trouble, I will whomp you so hard…"

"Sure, Lars," Maurice muttered, making to leave the restroom.

"Maurice," Lars called after him, and he paused, looking back over his shoulder to the older boy, "I guess you are better than nothing," he conceded and Maurice just shook his head, confused by that moment, jogging back down the stairs to clean the lamp up.

* * *

END A/N: One of the first things I should tell all of you, is I don't know how much a two year old talks, but I do know how much a three year old talks, and Lars (in the first couple of flashbacks) is supposed to be close to three years old. 

On the Spanish songs: The lullaby is entitled, "(El) Nino Querido" (Beloved baby/Dear Child) and it was supposedly Puerto Rican. However, I just thought the song was so beautiful. You can download it at the WPA California Folk Music Project, just type in "Spanish lullabies" at altavista. I could only find the lyrics for the first two lines, so I had to piece together the other two lines by listening to the song over and over and over and over and over and over...sigh, they may not be accurate. If anyone does happen to know the real lyrics, or even any more information on the lullaby, I'd appreciate if you told me! The other song, that Maurice is singing, is entitled "Maria Isabel", and he's singing part of the chorus. Now this song, I had to learn in my Spanish II class, and boy did I hate it. It's one of those songs that gets stuck in your head, and it's not the song I hated, rather the fact my teacher had these "fun" motions that she wanted us to do while we sang it. My, I felt like a child in that class. Anyways, the rest of the chorus goes, "Coje tu sombrero y pontelo (grab your hat and put it on). Vamos a la playa, calienta el sol (Something about going to the beach and the hot sun...), Coje tu sombrero y pontelo. Vamos a la playa, calienta el sol. Chiribiribi pompompompom, chiribiribi pompompompom..." It's actually kind of fun to sing...

The place they live in before Ocean Shores, I drew a lot on a place I lived when I was younger. Dirty four complex, with a bunch of raggedy children running around barefoot, black as dirt. Yup...and to get to school, me and my sister actually did take a shortcut through this desert. My sister stepped on a nail once, in that desert. Went right up through her shoe, into her foot, and she bled through her sock and several towels. Um...and school, I hated that school too.

AND we once had an avacodo colored fridge! And, I don't remember what my mother did, I believe this was back when she was going to Dealer's school (Yes, you have to go to school to be a dealer at the casinoes), but my dad did work in construction; and he worked with a lot of hispanics.

Wow, this is my first Lars's centric piece! I'm so proud of it...even if it doesn't make any sense. Please excuse any grammatical and typing errors, and as this is my first story about Lars, could you all _please_ _**REVIEW**_?

Uh huh...thanks for reading. Bye!


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